Monthly Archives: December 2017

Chase Atlantic

For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.

Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.

There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.

How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.

I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.

For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.

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Places In My Veins

There’s a place for my pulse

Somewhere within my wrists

But no matter how hard I try

I can’t figure out where it is

.

I’ll rest my head in a sea of nightmares

And drown looking for a sweeter dream

I’ll marry a liar just to find out the truth

High on the promise, low on self-esteem

.

And the haze is piercing my blacktop heart

Latent vortex swirling in a negative universe

Rotting with the blindness that I call my eyes

Hides the blood of another paralysing curse

.

There’s a place for the vaguer beat of my soul

Somewhere under my skin, between my wrists

But no matter how many deep incisions I make

I simply can’t seem to find it; does it even exist?

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new dawn fades

A change of speed, a change of style
A change of scene, with no regrets
A chance to watch, admire the distance
Still occupied, though you forget
Different colours, different shades…

~*~

hear me twisting

the young stars into

a virgin dawn

as the birthing moon

collides the space

the crying distance

of amalgamated scarlet

and charcoal ember

is faded into lavender

by the midnight sky

so remember me

as the sun sends hearts

another drink of sunshine

kissing freckled flesh

for i’ll be twisting

the orphan stars

into a parvenu dawn

and i shall be reposing.

~*~

It was me, waiting for me
Hoping for something more
Me, seeing me this time
Hoping for something else.

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Of Bards and Boulevards

I am a poet, and I am here to tell you a story.

But, be forewarned, for I do not narrate. I simply leave mischievous glimpses and equivocal fragments for you to pick up and stitch together on your own. I do not wish to be straightforward; for the better adventure is surrendered on a vertical highway. Instead I provide narrow twisted paths and interminable dead ends, unhelpful road signs and perennially blinking broken traffic lights, confusing directions to nowhere that will lead you to everywhere. It is solely up to you to decide where you shall end up, whether it be a populated city with brightly glowing billboard lights, or a dark narrow alleyway with a fetid corpse abandoned under the dumpster. The exact same steps taken can lead to either one at any given time. The travel is truly yours to pursue, and I am merely there to provide you with what scant counsel you might require, and even then, my offers of assistance might be questionable, and the information given will be more misleading than useful. For I am a poet, not a mere storyteller, and my intricate words are your only guide, your sole map and compass in this discordant infinite chaos of a universe that I have created. Never take them as they are, and pray caution, for they do not want you to arrive at your destination. And neither do I.

I am a poet, and I’ll tell you to get lost.

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bitter; beater…better?

for me, bring back the beat

symphonies static in summer heat

ocean waves that washed away

the memories that will never stay

saving blood for what can’t be had

never knew you want it that bad

warm as the photographs you set on fire

i’ll be a good boy and say i’m the liar

convince me that this isn’t just a movie

and your melodrama ain’t a comedy

that the rude words colliding on the sky

wasn’t just another plot for me to die

but with everything i thought i’ll create

is just another separation desperate

and i can’t wait to bring the beat back home

but this time i’ll be playing it all alone.

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How come no one heard her when she said—?

She doesn’t know she’s beautiful
‘Cause no one’s ever told her so
And the demons that she hides are all she knows
And maybe she can fall in love
With someone in her life that she could trust
And tell her she’s enough
(Will someone tell her she’s enough?)

~*~

How come no one

heard her when she

was screaming in her

bedroom at three in the

morning, scratching madly

at the pristine walls until

her fingernails broke and bled?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

was crying in a bathroom

stall, all the things they threw at

her leaving marks, and all

the ugly names they chanted at

her still ringing violently in her head?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

was slicing and hacking

away at her unhealing skin

so fucking audibly, and when

she slipped on that liquid

and fell with a thud, bruised and

bathed in puddles of dirty red?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

moaned as she rested fitfully

sleep paralysis taking full

control of every recourse

mouthing all the words

to the nightmares, those things

that she’s always left unsaid?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

vomited bile and empty air

kneeling faithlessly in front of the

porcelain god, sharp ribs poking

through her paper chest, even when

she ate nothing the whole day,

with herself she was still disgusted?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

was laughing, singing, and

talking by herself, and striking

up lengthy conversations with the

imaginary friends she made up

and the demons that she wed?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

asked relentlessly for help

begging and pleading, saying

that no doctor nor medicine

could ever cure her, and perhaps

an iota of support and care

for her was all she ever needed?

.

How come no one

heard her when she was already

being so earsplittingly loud

blind eyes and deaf ears

blaming nothing but the victim

“it was her fault” they say

“she should have said something”

but they all ignored her when

she actually piped up

keeping the regret to the very end—

and now she’s silent forever

and all her words went ahead…

tell me, how come no one

heard her until she was already dead?

~*~

Maybe I’m better off dead
If I was, would it finally be enough
To shut out all those voices in my head?
Maybe I’m better off dead, better off dead!
Did you hear a word, hear a word I said?
This is not where I belong
You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone…

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Six Feet Under, Stars Above

You’re just another set of bones to lay to rest
I guess it’s time to say goodnight
Hope you had a really good time, good time…

~*~

tonight, the sun will go down

along with a million stars into the ground

fading into silent eviction

and every speck i’ll count is but a perception

taste of blood i feel on my tongue

as heavy as the lonesome bed left unsung

muttering the wrong name on my drowsy lips

sharpening the needles of apologies

perhaps it’ll be alright, if i’m able

or perhaps i’ll end up sleeping on the kitchen table

with a Jack and a flat drunk dial tone

picking up where i left off on the disconnected telephone

but i will never forget your infinite sighs

when you whispered softly “we should die in style”

and tonight, when the sun goes down

i’ll be waiting for you, six feet under the ground.

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A Lightless Window

The blinds remained closed

As the person behind them thawed

Melting into evanescent shadows

They’ve been crying for a while, now

.

The stars may seem decadent

But all they taste of is a violent death

Apologies may seem so early

But they’re always a subsequent regret

.

And heartaches are cured

By the lifelines on your opened palm

Begging for another chance

To be saved from anyone, by anyone

.

But the blinds remained closed

As the person behind them coalesced in glow

Falling away into vice and virtue

And they’ve been screaming for a while, now.

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dumb dreamer

the truth is

i don’t really

want to die

just yet

because

somehow, i’m

still stupid

enough to hope.

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More or Less

I could tell, it’s more than just another pang

Another star filling up your empty universe

It’s more than the transient flicker of a firefly

Another synaptic beat in your dancing blood

.

If it’s worth the risk, then just tell me please

Swallow a mouthful of nails for a single kiss

As the idle bitter lullabies disturbed my sleep

And it’s freaking me out, think I’m in too deep

.

Because it’s more than just another oblique lie

Another dark cigarette burn marking your skin

It’s more than just another targeted hit and miss

And you know how it goes, that’s more than this.

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